OverIdentification
by kwritten
Summary: I owe Emily Bronte everything and for Wuthering Heights, so does the world. Quotes interspersed. WARNING::: This story is dependent upon an intimate knowledge of Wuthering Heights. Summary: In a future-AU, D/Elena read together to pass the ti


_... he's always, always in my mind - not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself - but, as my own being ..._

It was the first gift Stefan had ever given her. It was now worn and ragged, so much time had passed. Damon's favorite pages dog-eared and torn beyond recognition. Was it even a book anymore, this mess of paper, glue, and ink? Did the words they had memorized so long ago bear any meaning anymore?

As he recited to her, for the thousandth time, she arched her body into his hands and mouth, seeking the pleasure of his pleasure. She felt him in every breath, as his delicate fingers brought her closer to to completion, as his echoed words dinged in her ears. It no longer mattered if the words were said, nights sitting still listening to the other read aloud - for all those years - and still they clung to this...

Her first gift.

The first sign that her world had changed. That she had changed.

That maybe she had never been her self to begin with, but had always just been ...

_I'm tired of being what you want me to be_

_Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface_

_Don't know what you're expecting of me_

_Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes_

_(Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow)_

_Every step that I take is another mistake to you_

_(Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow)_

"What's this?" Damon picked up a worn paperback novel off of her nightstand with his typical sarcastic grin, one eyebrow arching up in an attempt to mask the raw emotions in his searching eyes.

Elena flipped her hair back and looked up at him, "A book."

"I see that, smart ass. What is it doing here?" As usual, Damon's enunciation was on the wrong word, like a scene from a bad Christopher Walken film. _Doing_, as if the small paperback had a motive all its own that was somehow separate and yet connected to Elena's nefarious plans. In Damon's eyes, all Elena's plans were nefarious - or must be treated as so, because otherwise: how could he get involved?

Elena snatched it out of his hands and attempted to thrust it into the already overflowing duffle-bag. "It was a gift."

_She sometimes felt heady under his gaze, lightheaded and not quite grounded in her body. She wondered, wonders, wanders through memories of his gaze, through theories about Katherine and the body he knew before. He knows, the way she shakes, the way she blushes, the way the tears build up behind her blank stare, that the "gift" was from Stefan - that she would sooner leave her world behind than the one last item that ties her to him. She knows, the way his eyes dim, the way his smile grows broader, the way his shoulders tighten, that he'd rather leave behind _her_ than the one item that ties them together. His expectations are always there, bubbling under the surface, hidden behind every smile and every bad joke, the expectation to be worth it, to be what they need to survive. The weight of his gaze is heavy._

"Are you ready?"

Damon spread his arms wide and walked in a circle around her room, "This is your party."

She took one last look around the space that had been her comfort, the space that had held her as tightly and warmly as a womb as she had grown and triumphed, grown and failed. "Ready."

They both pretended that her voice didn't crack. They both pretended she didn't even have the heart to close the door, such a small gesture was just too much. They both pretended she didn't see him snatch the teddy bear off her bed and tuck it into a side pocket of the bag he carried down the hall. They both pretended they'd be back.

They both ignored the paperback, still clutched in her hand as they walked out of the life she had known.

_If I were in Heaven, ... I should be extremely miserable... I dreamt once, that I was there... heaven did not seem to be my home; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out... I woke sobbing for joy... Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same..._

She began reading aloud to him as they ran, driving to and fro across counties and countries. She read to him when there was nothing left to say, when their silences held more meaning, when his simple movements meant more than any words he was able to speak.

She was not surprised when he knew the words before she read them. She found it comforting when the light of the moon was too dim for her to read and he was able to keep speaking without missing a beat, missing a word. She was not surprised when he cried at Catherine's death - every time. She was not surprised to learn the limits of his sarcasm extended to Catherine and Heathcliff.

He was not surprised when she began to learn the words as intimately as he. He found it comforting to speak the words back to her, under the gleam of moonlight, as if they were his words meant only for her. He was not surprised the first time she cried at Catherine's death, or any time after. He was not surprised to learn the limits of her argumentative nature had been sorely underestimated.

I've become so numb, I can't feel you there

Become so tired, so much more aware

I'm becoming this, all I want to do

Is be more like me and be less like you

"Are you sure this is..."

"Safe? Of course not. But as long as you have that magical doo-hicky from witchy, one night of rest will be fine until we find something more secure." Damon flopped himself down on the rickety bed of their hotel room and watched her under half-closed lids.

"No," she coughed and twirled around (he tried not to find it endearing). "Damon this place is _gross_."

_He tried not to see the room from her perspective. He tried to find her wrinkled nose an annoyance, fighting the instinct to kiss the look off her face, to announce that he would find a better room. He tried not to listen to her cry in the shower, tried to pretend that the sound of her sobs did not provoke his own eyes to water instinctively. He tried to ignore his need to please, to placate, to accommodate her every need before she expressed it. He tried to ignore how he had so easily made room for her in his life, how much he ached to be a part of her._

When Elena curled up on the bed next to him that night, the first night they hadn't spent in a car, neither reached out for the other. He saw himself in her eyes before she nodded off to sleep, facing him but never touching him. He held her hand in the dark and cursed the world that put her in his bed, but wouldn't let him in her heart.

She held his hand in the dark and cursed the world that put him in her heart and wouldn't let her block him out.

_Can't you see that you're smothering me,_

_Holding too tightly, afraid to lose control?_

_'Cause everything that you thought I would be_

_Has fallen apart right in front of you._

_(Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow)_

_Every step that I take is another mistake to you._

_(Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow)_

_And every second I waste is more than I can take._

The first time they cross the line from frenemies to lovers, it is part reading-group, part role-play, and part self-torture. The words on the page come to life in each other's arms.

Damon feels, for the first time, complete in his part.

Elena feels, for the first time, as though she has truly chosen her part.

They rush through the words to their bodies. They crash together and burn with the impact. There is no slowing down, no relief for the sudden onset of feeling and desire. He is surprised by her brutality, her fingernails and teeth leave bruises. She is surprised by his tenderness, his breath and tongue scorch her skin. They are never surprised again.

They are nothing but words and flesh.

_I shall love mine yet; and take him with me - he's in my soul. And... the thing that irks me most is this shattered prison, after all. I'm tired, tired of being enclosed here. I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there; not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart..._

They leave behind a screaming bundle on a doorstep one night and only moments later, he is in her and she is in him and she is like him. There is nothing left in the mortal coil to hold her. She is tired of running, of fighting a war she no longer cares about. She takes him in her and he watches her become him.

Years later, he realizes that they no longer speak in words that do not belong in the mouths of someone before. Every interaction is not rehearsed - it is merely known down to his core. Simple settings and introductions, sound like the words from the paperback novel that eventually fell apart and flew away.

On the day that he first begins to call her "Catherine" she does not take offense. She knows that Katherine is only a fraction of the memories that their words have erased.

This did NOT come out like I planned... I'm not sure whether or not to be pleased or utterly dejected. Since I have to crawl out of bed in a little less than six hours, I'm going with PLEASED. D/E is surprising... I'm going to stick with that.


End file.
